Doppelganger
by onceandfuturewarlock
Summary: "Merlin," Arthur says, "has split himself into nine Merlins." / "Jesus Christ," Elyan says blankly.
1. Chapter 1

"Right," Arthur says, finally, into the absolute silence of Gaius' wrecked chamber—all the tables and chairs overturned, all the big, dusty books open on the floor, torn pages and stained papers still fluttering around and around in the air like tiny white birds. "So." He lets himself think, for one long and happy moment, of the moment he sees Merlin again. He can't wait to drag the idiot down to the kitchens and tell the cook to chop him up and serve him for dinner.

"Now, Sire," Gaius says, like Arthur has just opened up his mouth and actually said _I'm going to chop Merlin up and serve him for dinner_ out loud, except, Arthur's really very certain he didn't, so maybe Gaius really _can_ read minds, like Gwaine always wants to bet thirty pounds on, "—_mustn't_ be too hard on Merlin, surely, you know that, it was merely an accident—"

"Right," Arthur says, again. It'll be a tricky thing to boil Merlin. He's all skinny and stringy. He'll get chewy very fast. "Wouldn't dream of it, Gaius."

And maybe Gaius really can read minds, because he sees through _that_ in less than half a moment—damn it, Gwaine wins, doesn't he, Arthur's going to have to hand thirty pounds over to the drunken fool tonight—

"—Sire, _please_, Merlin merely misunderstood the intent of the incantation—I cannot deny, he ought to have proceeded with far more caution, and of course, he must shoulder some of the blame, but it is not entirely his fault—"

All right. No. Absolutely not. Arthur cannot listen to that any longer. "_Not entirely his fault_?" He doesn't mean to shout it. That just sort of happens all on its own. "He's gone and _split himself into eight_! This is _entirely his_—!"

"Nine," Gaius says, gently, and reaches over, and pats Arthur lightly on the back of his hand. "Actually."

"Oh! Right! Yes! Of course!" Arthur yanks his hand away, and he thinks he might actually still be shouting a little bit. Maybe. "Of course! Nine! Why didn't I think of that! Eight would be too _easy_, I expect!"

"—Sire—"

"And God forbid Merlin ever make anything easy! He can't just go and have magic, oh, no, he's got to go and be a _dragonlord_, and _have a dragon_, and _be married to a lake_, and be the _king of the druids_ and _split himself into eight_!"

"Nine," Gaius says, again. It feels very unhelpful right now.

The door swings open, with a long, low creak—a good thing, because if Gaius had got one more word out of his mouth, Arthur would have actually _exploded_—and the knights rush in, with a great swirl and swish of scarlet cloaks, and a heavy clatter of silver mail, and Guinevere follows on their heels, her red velvet skirt bunched up in her fists so she can run.

"Sire," Leon bows low, and flicks his sweat-soaked curls out of his eyes with the back of his hand, "Gaius," he nods at the old man, "we all came as soon as we heard—what's happened, what is it, what's—?"

"Merlin," Arthur says, at once, because it's like when Gaius rips out stitches after the wound has healed, the quicker, the better, the quicker, the less it will hurt, "has split himself into eight Merlins."

"Nine," Gaius says.

"Nine," Arthur amends with a little huff.

"Jesus Christ," Elyan says blankly.

Percival nods fervently.

"Nine Merlins?" Guinevere echoes, incredulously, and her brows arch up a bit, and she looks at Arthur like she thinks this is all a joke he wants to play on them, like any moment now, Merlin will pop out from behind one of the overturned tables, or come down the dark, narrow stairs at the back of the room, and laugh his idiot head off and say_ not really_!

Arthur should be so lucky. Arthur really, really should be so damn lucky. "Nine Merlins." He nods.

"Fuck," Gwaine says, frankly.

Percival nods fervently again.

"Thank you, Gwaine," Gaius says dryly.

"Well, there has to be a way to fix him," Arthur says impatiently—honestly, yes, all right, he knows this is a bit of a shock, but it really doesn't take that long to come 'round to _Merlin is an absolute idiot and he lost control of his magic and mucked up and now we have to go fix it, sounds like Tuesday in Camelot, huh_, "can't we just—I don't know—" he_ doesn't_ know, actually, he doesn't know very much about magic at all, because magic lives in the lovely little place he likes to call _Merlin's Problem, Not Mine, _but Merlin's not here right now to make it his problem, so it looks like it's going to be Arthur's problem instead, "—can't we just take all the Merlins and shove them back into one Merlin, or something?"

"Shove them back into one?" Guinevere whirls around to scowl at Arthur. "No! No, we are not going to _hurt him_!"

"If we can get all the variants of Merlin together," Gaius says, calmly, but he's already raising that damned brow, "there _is_, indeed, a spell that will—_gently_—" his brow jumps a bit higher, "merge the facets back into one cohesive whole. But I need hardly tell you, I do not possess the power to even attempt such a thing, Sire. Merlin himself must do it."

"Great," Arthur says flatly. "Why do we always need Merlin for everything?" It's not like the idiot doesn't deserve it—might even do him some good, actually, to clean up his own messes—but Arthur thinks, sometimes, he would give his sword arm just to have a crisis in his kingdom he can solve without magic, and gold eyes, and a whole lot of odd gibberish.

"Hey," Gwaine says, "question."

"Yes, Gwaine," Arthur snaps, "you have to help." If he can't get out of this, his knights aren't getting out of this. "I don't care how many taverns have got a half-price deal going, or if that barmaid finally lost her last rational thought and decided to roll in the hay with you, but—"

"'_Have to help_'?" Gwaine echoes, like Arthur's just said a truly obscene swear. "Try and stop me, Princess. It's _Merlin_." Like that explains everything.

(It does, actually, because Arthur feels the same—if Merlin needs him, that's it, that's just it, end of story, nothing else matters, so long as he's there when Merlin needs him—but he would cut out his own tongue and chop _it_ up for dinner before he would ever, _ever_ say that out loud.)

"Please, Sir Gwaine," Gaius says, "I fear there's not much time. If Merlin remains in this disparate state for much longer, the facets will, gradually, begin to fade, and the Merlin we know will disappear from this realm forever."

"Disappear?!" Arthur snaps back around to look at Gaius. "Why the hell didn't you come right out and say that before now?!" It hits like ice in the bottom of his stomach—_disappear, forever, Merlin will disappear from this realm forever, the Merlin we know will disappear from this realm forever,_ and _what will I do without him, what will I do without him, I can't, I can't, I need him, I need him here, I can't do this without him, I can't, we haven't done all the things we're meant to do, and I need him here, so we can do them, I need him here to call me a prat and trip over absolutely everything and cry when he sees baby rabbits and hold a sword all the wrong ways because he's rubbish with a blade and I need him here to smile too much and say good morning too loudly and talk about druids and dragons and magic for hours if I don't shut him up and just be Merlin—_

"All right, all right, so, just—one thing, then," Gwaine hastily holds up a broad, black-gloved hand, "just one thing, yeah? So, if Merlin tried a weird spell, and turned himself into nine—"

"Yes," Arthur huffs—maybe he should chop _Gwaine_ up, and serve _him_ for dinner, then, "wonderful job, Gwaine, truly phenomenal, now, come on, we have to find him—"

"—wait, wait," Gwaine says, "wait, now, just hang on, Princess, if Merlin tried a weird spell, and turned himself into nine—"

"Gwaine, if you don't sober up and take this seriously, I swear to God, I'll have Percival toss you in the horse trough!" Arthur snarls.

"Um," Percival says, "actually, I would rather _not_ toss Gwaine in the horse trough."

"No need to hide it," Elyan says. "We all kind of want to toss Gwaine in the horse trough."

"—_if Merlin tried a weird spell and turned himself into nine, which one is supposed to merge him back_?!"

Oh. A hard, heavy stone drops down in Arthur's stomach, right next to the ice. God, Gwaine's actually got a point—would wonders never cease, and all of that, but no, this is not the time, because Gwaine's actually got a damn good point, if Merlin isn't just one Merlin any longer, if he's a whole lot of Merlins all running 'round the castle, is there a way to get one of them to—to do it, to put him back, to put him right, to make him Merlin again—?

"Oh," Gaius doesn't look even half so horrified as Arthur feels, "now _that _is very simple, Sir Gwaine. You must find the one that is _truly _Merlin."

Gaius' idea of "simple" looks very, very different from Arthur's.

"Right, thanks," Gwaine says. "One more thing, though. What the actual fuck does that mean?"

"Gwaine!" Elyan reaches up and cuffs his friend, _hard_, 'round the head.

"I'm sorry," Gaius says, seriously, "I'm afraid I don't know that. I suppose you will know the true Merlin once you find him."

Great. Arthur's stomach sinks, under the weight of all that ice and stone. So he has to track down nine magical idiots, because just _one_ apparently isn't magical or idiotic _enough_, and he's got to work out which one is actually, truly _his_ magical idiot. Wonderful. Can't wait.

"All right, well," Guinevere bites her bottom lip, and turns to look at the others, a wrinkle in her dark brow, "well, then, we have to _find_ him first." She shakes her head—her thick, brown curls bounce a bit, up and down. "_Them_. We have to find _them_. Where do you think they'd have gone?"

"Perhaps," Leon speaks up before Arthur's got the chance to even think about it, "perhaps he's gone to the king's chambers? That's usually where he goes every morning, so, maybe—"

Oh. The ice and stone in Arthur's stomach lifts a little. That's actually not a bad idea. No, that's—that's a _good_ idea, actually, that's a _very good_ idea, that_ is_ where Merlin goes every day, and where _else_ does Merlin go every day? Where else would Merlin be at this time?

It hits Arthur hardly half a moment later. "The armory!" He glances over at Leon. "And the training field—he's usually down there with me right now, we usually spar 'round this time—"

"Spar?" Gwaine snorts. "No, you don't 'spar', you just hit him over and over until he can't stand up. That's not a spar. That's a_ beating_."

"Shut up, Gwaine."

"Oh! The kitchens!" Guinevere's face lights up. "He goes there all the time to fetch Arthur's meals! And to steal food," she adds, with a little scowl, "honestly, you'd think he doesn't hear me at all, I've tried a hundred times to tell him not to—"

"What d'you expect?" Gwaine cocks a dark brow. "Princess hardly gives the poor guy time to _breathe_. It'd be a miracle if he ever got to actually sit down and eat a proper meal."

"Gwaine," Arthur says, "the horse trough is still very much on the table right now." Of course Merlin has time to eat. Plenty of time. Loads of time, even. The idiot knows how to talk—_unfortunately_—and he _certainly_ knows how to whine and whinge if he ever gets too hungry.

"Oh!" Percival brightens. "Maybe that's where Merlin's gone!"

"The horse trough?" Elyan arches a doubtful brow at Percival.

"No, no," Percival waves him off, "the stables! He has to see to the horses every day, right? And he'll hang 'round sometimes to spoil his old nag, I've seen him at it."

"Excellent idea, Percival!" Guinevere beams at him. "Thank you!"

A tiny little bit of relief stirs in Arthur's stomach. Maybe this won't be nearly as hard as he thinks. "All right, everyone, let's all fan out. Sir Percival, you'll take the stables, since you thought of it, Guinevere, if you could see to the kitchens, Sir Elyan, the armory and the training field, Sir Leon, check the throne room, it's worth a look, and Sir Gwaine, get yourself down to the archives—"

"I really don't think there's a Merlin in the archives," Gwaine breaks in. "Pretty sure if he ever picked up a book that wasn't just magic cover-to-cover, Gaius might actually cry of joy."

"It is a long-cherished dream of mine," Gaius admits.

"Shut up, Gwaine," Arthur says, again, "just check the archives. Maybe he's there, maybe he's not, but we just can't take the risk. We can't miss one of him. We have to find all of them. _Quickly_."

* * *

**Notes: ****so, I could say I'm sorry for this, because, let's be honest, we all know y'all didn't ask for this heap of garbage. yet here it is. big and stinking and right on your doorstep. you're fucking welcome.**

**already have an additional 15k devoted to this concept, so buckle in, there's more. might actually take this and turn this into a short multi-chap under the Arthur Knows umbrella, or post it all as small, interconnected bits and pieces here and there, but honestly, i'm not one hundred percent sure on the way i want to present this just yet. for now,i'm marking it as a standalone, just like all the others, but if y'all think one would work better than the other, feel free to let me know, because i'm on the fence and open to suggestion.**


	2. Chapter 2

Guinevere and the knights—yes, even Gwaine, miracle of all miracles, will wonders never cease and all of that, even if he still grumbles under his breath all the way out the door, _Merlin would never go to the archives without a sword at his back, have you ever seen him with a book in your entire life—_scatter off to search the whole castle top to bottom, and so Arthur, with a last nod to Gaius, heads off to check his own chambers. Maybe it's a bit of a long shot, but it's like Leon said—the real, _whole_ Merlin is always with Arthur, at his heels or in his shadow or half a step behind him, like a damn puppy, all the time, day and night, from the moment Arthur opens his eyes in the dawn light to the moment he climbs back into bed and shuts his eyes again, to the dim glow of the candles just before Merlin comes up and blows them out. So it _would_ make a certain sort of sense, wouldn't it, to find all the split-up Merlins in all the spots the real, whole Merlin goes to, with Arthur every day. So. Yes. His chambers go straight to the top of that list, right?

Except Arthur never gets to check his chambers.

Because he never actually _makes it_ to his chambers.

Hell, Arthur hardly makes it halfway down the long, wide corridor just off Gaius' chambers before he crashes, armor and all, straight into a very tall, very skinny idiot, all big blue eyes and goofy smile and enormous ears sticking out like cookpot handles from under his thick mop of dark, messy hair, and he doesn't even seem to care that Arthur just knocked him clear down to the cold stone floor.

"Arthur!" His whole, stupid face lights up, just like the_ real_ Merlin lights up, except the real Merlin _doesn't_ light up when he sees Arthur, because the real Merlin only lights up when he's just heard the word _magic. _Or _chocolate cake_. Or _baby animal_. "Where on earth have you been?" He pushes himself clumsily back up on his feet and clicks his tongue at Arthur, like a mother might at a fussy, stubborn child. "_Honestly_! I've been looking all over for you! You can't just disappear like that!"

Arthur scowls—oh, so, now, is that it, is that right, _Merlin _hasbeen looking all over for _Arthur_, like_ Arthur_ hasn't been looking all over _for him_, and Merlin wouldn't even need to "look all over" for him, and he wouldn't even need to look all over for Merlin if the idiot _hadn't_ gone and _split himself into nine_!

Except Arthur doesn't even get the chance to _say_ any of that.

Because this Merlin just keeps right on going.

"Oh, never mind," he shakes his dark head and heaves a little sigh, "never mind that now, I suppose, nothing to be done, and anyway, it's—" he casts a quick glance out the high window in the wall, his big blue eyes squinted against the thick floods of golden sunlight pouring in through the dusty, clear glass, "—nearly noon, I'd say," he nods, a little, "so, come on, let's get you some lunch, you really should get some food in you before the council meeting—"

"The council meeting?" Arthur echoes, blankly, but oh, _damn it_, damn it all to _hell_, because Merlin is _right_, isn't he? The council. He's meant to meet with the council in an hour or so. Of course, it's not like he's_ never_ missed a council before—God knows he skived off all the time back when he was only a prince, but that was, well, back when he was _only a prince_, he didn't actually_ need_ to _be there_, even if his father insisted he did, because the whole thing didn't hinge on, well,_ him_. Not when he was only a prince. He hasn't missed a council since he claimed his crown, but there's simply nothing else for it now. Merlin could fade away if this takes too long. Merlin could_ die. _Arthur has no choice. He can't just pop off right in the middle of all this to debate about grain and taxes, for God's sake, this, right here, is a far more important matter than that.

_Merlin_ is far more important than the council.

Except.

Merlin doesn't know. Does he? No, no, Merlin doesn't know he's gone and split himself into nine, Merlin doesn't know all the risks, Merlin doesn't know he could die if he doesn't put himself right again, and Arthur can't come out and _say it_, he just can't come right out and say it, can he? Where would he even _start_ with that? _You split yourself into nine of you because you're an absolute idiot and you're meant to be the most powerful sorcerer in the world, honestly, Merlin, it's pathetic, and right now, you're only one-ninth of a whole idiot, which is even worse, bet you haven't even got half a brain cell between all nine of you, so you've got to come back with me to Gaius so you can merge yourself back, so you can be nine-ninths, so you can be a whole idiot again, the way you usually are, _but that's obviously not going to work. At all. That's just going to baffle Merlin even more, isn't it?

So. Keep it simple.

"No," Arthur says, at last, with a small shake of his head, "no, council's—um—canceled. Yes. That's it." He nods a bit too hard. "Rescheduled. Council's been rescheduled. Didn't you hear?" It's the dumbest lie he's ever told in his life, but Merlin is also an absolute idiot, so it should work.

"Oh." Merlin frowns. His dark brow wrinkles. "_Has_ it? A-Arthur, no, I'm really pretty sure it's still—"

"No, no, it has," Arthur says, too quickly—is one-ninth of Merlin really a bit smarter than the real, whole Merlin? Maybe he should do the whole castle a favor, and leave him like this. No. Wait. Never mind. The fading away is still very much a thing, remember? "Which is good, _very_ good, because," he rambles, and he can only half-hear his own words right now, as he hooks an arm around the idiot's skinny shoulders, and steers him back down the corridor, "_we _have to get to Gaius. Come on."

"To _Gaius_?" Merlin doesn't push away from Arthur, so that's good, but he _does_ pull up to a sharp stop, his big blue eyes even bigger than usual in his thin face. Which is_ not_ good. Because he really _does_ need to get back to Gaius. _Now_. "What's wrong? What's happened to you?" His enormous eyes look Arthur up and down, like he's certain he's only seconds away from finding an open, bloody wound. "Are you hurt?! Are you _ill_?!"

"No, no!" Arthur gets it out as quick as he can, because Merlin honestly looks like he'll rush off and declare a kingdom-wide crisis, or like maybe he won't take another damn breath until he's hauled Arthur back from the brink of death with his own bare hands. "No, I'm not hurt, I'm not ill, I'm all right, but—but_ you_—"

Oh.

Arthur stops, his mouth still half-open, the words still on the tip of his tongue, on the corner of his lip, except he can't just tell that to this Merlin, remember? He can't just come right out and say it, can he?

"—you're not," Arthur says, finally. "You're—erm—ill." That should do it. That should work. Shouldn't it? "You're very ill. And we have to get you back to Gaius, and we'll look after you, and he'll give you some horrid draught to drink, and you can pull all your obnoxious faces and whine about how bad it tastes and—"

"_Oh,"_ Merlin actually goes limp in what looks a lot like relief—God, the idiot really _was_ worried, wasn't he? The idiot really had gone and worked himself up into a proper tizzy about Arthur. And all while he's _fading away_. Stupid idiot. "Oh, no, Arthur, no, I'm sure I'm all right. Really." His mouth flicks up at the corners in a small smile.

Except.

No. It's not just a smile.

It's The Smile.

The Smile on Merlin's face every damn time Arthur shoves him back from a bloodthirsty bandit or a vicious, evil sorcerer, it's the smile on Merlin's face every time Arthur says _get behind me_ or _you're going to get yourself killed, you idiot,_ or _stay away from there, it's dangerous_, it's The Smile, The _oh, look at Arthur trying to protect me, isn't he cute, because I'm obviously invincible and I can't ever get hurt_ Smile, and Arthur hates it, absolutely hates it, and every time he sees it, he just wants to grab Merlin and shake him and shout at him_ but_ _you're not, you're not invincible, remember, you swoon like a maiden if you use too much magic and you go off on your own and you come back bruised and bloody and exhausted, and you think you're so much faster and so much stronger and so much better than a knight, but you're not, you're not, you can still get hurt, you can still die, just like anyone else in this castle, so stop acting like you can't, stop acting like you can't before you really do, you stupid, stupid—_

"Merlin," Arthur huffs, "don't be an_ idiot_. You're ill. You need to let Gaius take a look at you."

"But," Merlin blinks his big blue eyes up at Arthur, "but I'm _not_. Really. I promise, I feel absolutely fine. I don't need to be looked after. And certainly not by _you_."

Wait.

_What?_ Sorry, but it sounded a bit like Merlin just put far too much stress on that last word. And it sounded like he almost laughed. Actually laughed! Like it's really so ridiculous!

"Certainly not by _me_?" Arthur echoes, and he can already feel the scowl as it creases his brow. All right, yes, fine, he's not _Gaius_, obviously, and he's certainly not Guinevere, all right, he's not good with the medical side of things, the humors and the imbalances and the potions and pastes, no, he's not _good_ at that, he's not good at that at all. And he's certainly not like Gaius and he's not like Guinevere because he doesn't go all _oh, let's wrap the poor, sick, fevered Merlin up in cotton wool and blow him kisses and coddle him like he's an actual child,_ but, come on, he's all right! He's far better than Gaius and Guinevere in that, actually, because Merlin could really stand a touch more tough love! Maybe Arthur's not exactly a tender nursemaid, but he can look after Merlin if he's got to! He can look after Merlin better than the idiot can look after _himself_! That's certain! "What's wrong with _me_?"

"Oh," and damn him, Merlin really _does_ laugh, now, "oh, no, no, I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Of course I didn't mean it like that, I just—" another little laugh slips out, and Arthur is actually, really going to tear the idiot's whole mouth off right now, "—I-I mean, it'd be so _weird_. You know?" He smiles—it's not The Smile, but it's a bit toon close—and the edges of his eyes crinkle up with it. "It'd be_ wrong_."

Arthur blinks. "Wrong?" It's not meant to be a question. He doesn't want to _make it_ a question. But that's the way it sounds.

Merlin looks like he can't believe Arthur's even got to ask. Like he can't believe Arthur just doesn't already _know_. Like he can't believe Arthur can't _read minds_. "W-Well—" he bites down on his bottom lip and chews, for a long moment or two, "well, you know, because—well—_destiny_. It's destiny. I'm here to look after you. Not the other way 'round. You know?"

No.

No, Arthur doesn't know, Arthur doesn't know at all, Arthur absolutely does not know, because that is a hundred thousand miles past completely ridiculous, even for Merlin, honestly, did the idiot hit his head just now when he fell, or did he come up with that all on his—

—all on his—

_Oh._

Wait.

Actually.

The real Merlin could go on and on for ages about destiny if only Arthur let him—well, the real Merlin could go on and on for ages about anything if only Arthur let him, but he's learned that lesson, thank you very much, and also, that's absolutely not the point here, because the real Merlin has said all of that, the real, whole Merlin has said all of that rubbish before, all you're my destiny and _I was born to serve you and_ _I was made to protect you and I will, I swear I will, I swear I won't let anything happen to you,_ and _I'm meant to keep you safe, I'm meant to keep you from all the danger and disaster, I'm meant to take care of you_, oh, yes, Merlin has said all of that, except he's _never_ said _not the other way 'round,_ he's never, ever said that, ever, because Arthur would remember that, if he had, Arthur would have laughed out loud at him, if he had, so, no, Merlin has certainly never said that out loud, at least not to Arthur, but—

But what if he _thinks_ it?

What if the real Merlin—the real, actual, Merlin, the whole Merlin, not the little bit right here in the hall, the (oh, what did Gaius call it, come on, what did Gaius call it, oh, wait, he's got it) facet—what if the real Merlin thinks that? What if the real Merlin thinks it's _not the other way 'round_? What if the real Merlin thinks it would be _wrong _if it ever was _the other way 'round_? What if the real Merlin thinks like that, what if the real Merlin actually thinks that?

He's never said it.

He's never said it.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't _think it_.

The Smile.

The _oh, look at Arthur trying to protect me, isn't he cute, because I'm obviously invincible and I can't ever get hurt _Smile.

That's not what The Smile means. Is it?

Arthur swallows, just a little too hard, but he shakes his head and he pulls himself back. He can't do this. He can't slip like this. The real Merlin needs him right now, the real Merlin needs him, and he needs the real Merlin, because he needs to hit him 'round the head and toss him in the stocks and maybe also the dungeons, too, for ever, ever letting himself think it would be wrong if it was the other way 'round.

"Merlin," he says, firmly, no room to say no, "listen to me. You've got to come with me to Gaius, all right? There's a spell," because that pathetic you're ill obviously didn't work, and his pride's a bit too bruised to try another lie so soon after _that,_ "and you're the only one in this castle who can lift it, so—"

"_Oh_, that's right, I almost forgot! I suppose you need me now to merge all the nine bits back?"

_What?! _

"Y-You know?!"

Merlin blinks up at him. Can't believe he's got the nerve to look so innocent right now. "Yes. Of course. You can sort of feel it when you're only one of nine, you know, Arthur." Damn him, he looks like he can barely fight back a smile.

"And—and you—?" Honestly, if he didn't need all nine Merlins, he'd go ahead and get Cook to chop up this one. "You didn't think to _tell me_ you knew?!"

Merlin blinks again. "Well," he says, "you didn't ask."

"Merlin," Arthur says, seriously, "you are very lucky I don't have time to pick a new servant."

"Perhaps if you unglued yourself from Gwen every now and then, you would have the time."

"Do you want to go muck out the stables instead? That is very much an option right now, you know."

"Can't say it was very high on my list. Besides, there's already one of me doing that."

"Wait. Wait." Arthur stops. Again. "You're_ joking_."

Merlin actually pouts at this. An actual, literal pout. Like a child. "_No_," he says, very sullenly, "I'm _not_. I _can't _joke, and I can't tell lies, and I can't play tricks. I'm not that bit."

Arthur does not like the sound of that, at all, because that makes it sound like there is a Merlin who _can _joke and tell lies and play tricks, all rolled up into one, and he's not sure if he can even handle a Snarky Liar Prankster Merlin. If Camelot can handle a Snarky Liar Prankster Merlin. But he's pretty sure _this_ Merlin will just pout even harder if he brings that up. This Merlin seems very sore that he_ can't_ joke. "Right," he says, slowly, "well, um, which bit are_ you_, then?"

Merlin frowns. His brow wrinkles. "_Merlin_," he says.

This is indescribably unhelpful.

Arthur cuffs him 'round the back of the head. "Right," he huffs, "so, you're completely useless. Go on, get back to Gaius, and I'll head over to the stables to help Sir Percival with—"

Wait. Hang on. Hang on. Half a moment here.

"Merlin," he says, slowly, "you sensed that bit of you in the stables."

"Yes." Merlin rubs at the back of his head, at the spot right where Arthur walloped him, except, not like the real Merlin, because he doesn't even toss Arthur his cute little kicked-kitten scowl. He doesn't even look all that put out, really.

"So, can you sense the others? The rest?" Arthur raises his brows. "Can you tell me where the rest of you are?"

Merlin rubs at the back of his head again. "Probably," he says.

This Merlin, Arthur decides, must be Uncooperative Merlin.

"So," Arthur says, very slowly this time, because it looks like Uncooperative Merlin needs it all spelled out for him, "can you try and sense them for me? I need to find them, Merlin."

It's like he's just said some sort of magic word. Except, he's really very certain he hasn't, because he doesn't actually know any magic words, at all, and also, the last time he ever tried to repeat one of Merlin's spells back to him, to make him see it all sounded like absolute nonsense, the real Merlin laughed at him, very uncharitably, and so hard, his knees buckled and he had to lean on the wall so he wouldn't slide down to the floor and, when he finally caught his breath, said Arthur's pronunciation was "abysmal". It was a very demoralizing moment.

But right now, it is almost like Arthur's just cast a spell, a real spell, because Uncooperative Merlin nods.

"Of course," he says, like being uncooperative is the last thing on his mind, "of course, Arthur, if you need me to do it, I will."

Oh.

Well.

_If you need me to do it, I will._

Arthur is really going to have to remember _that_ one.

"Right," he says, "come on. Let's stop in and tell Gaius I've found one before we head off."

* * *

**Notes: pour one out for Arthur Pendragon. can we get an F in the chat for Arthur Pendragon **


	3. Chapter 3

"I found one!" Arthur eases the door open, and slips into the wreck of Gaius' chamber, with Uncooperative Merlin right on his heels. "I found one, Gaius. He's very obtuse, and extremely unhelpful and immensely irritating, so I'd say not much has changed with this bit."

"Thank you for that assessment, Sire," Gaius says, very dryly.

Uncooperative Merlin lets out a very loud, very unhappy huff.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur tosses over his shoulder before he turns back to Gaius. "There _is _some good news though. Apparently, he knows he's split himself into nine, and he's aware of all the others."

"Yes," Gaius stoops down to pick up a broken glass bottle off the floor, "I would imagine he_ is_ aware, Sire."

Arthur blinks. The old man has made some pretty clever guesses before, and he knows the ins and outs of magic far better than Merlin, but a spell to split a man up into nine still seems a bit out of his field. "What?"

"Well, I would suppose," Gaius says, very seriously, and he stands up straight to look at Arthur, "you can feel it when you're only one of nine."

Arthur is literally going to scream out loud. That's it. That's just it. He is going to go out into the forest and he is going to drop facedown into the dirt and he is going to scream himself hoarse. That's obviously the only way he's going to make it through this lunacy with even a modicum of his own sanity still intact.

He wheels around to look at Uncooperative Merlin, because he knows if he tries to say a single word to Gaius, that scream is going to come out right this moment. "Come on," he says, instead, and he tugs on Uncooperative Merlin's arm, "let's go, let's get down to the stables."

Uncooperative Merlin doesn't move.

Uncooperative Merlin certainly lives up to his name.

He stays absolutely still, his hands limp and open at his sides, his dark head cocked, and his wide blue eyes locked on—

—on the narrow stone stairs up to his own bedroom.

Arthur frowns. He looks at the stairs, but as far as he can tell, all the enormous, ancient books and broken glass bottles strewn on the steps aren't_ that_ fascinating. "What is it? What's wrong with you?" He tugs on Uncooperative Merlin's arm again, a little harder this time, to get his attention.

It certainly gets his attention.

Uncooperative Merlin nearly jumps out of his skin, and he skitters back at least two hundred paces, his blue eyes still a bit too wide for his thin, pale face, but he doesn't put up a fuss, and he doesn't shout at Arthur like the _real _Merlin would. "I—I just—it's just—" he shakes his head, and his mouth twists up, like he's just bitten into a lemon rind, like he doesn't want to spit out the words on his tongue, "—there's—" his mouth twists up even more, "—_another me_ up there."

"_Oh_," Arthur almost laughs, because trust Merlin, or a bit of Merlin, to make an enormous fuss over absolutely nothing, "is that _all_?" His heart lifts a little higher in his chest. Maybe this really _will_ be easy. Maybe he really will find all the Merlins much quicker than he even hoped. "Well, that's _great_, Merlin!" He tugs on Uncooperative Merlin's arm again, to pull him over to the stairs now. "Let's get him down here before he can run off! Gaius will keep an eye on him while we collect the others and we'll—"

But Uncooperative Merlin's thin, pale face pulls suddenly tight. "No," he says, sharply, and he drags his wrist right back out of Arthur's grip. "No, let's—um, let's, you know, _not _do that. At all. Ever. Okay? Sound good?"

"What?" Arthur flicks a glance over at Gaius, but the old man looks almost as baffled as he feels. "What are you talking about? It will only take a moment, Merlin, and it's best to get all of you together as quick as we can. We can't be running 'round right at the end like madmen, trying to get all the bits of you in the same—"

"No, no!" But Uncooperative Merlin shakes his head again, even harder now, his eyes bigger and wider than ever. "No, no, don't, really, let's find all the others first! Why don't we go and find all the others first? Because, if we don't find all the others, we'll have dragged _that_ bit down here all for nothing, a-and that would be _very rude_ of us, really, it's only good manners to let him—"

"_Shut up, Merlin!"_

Uncooperative Merlin immediately snaps his stupid, idiotic mouth closed, with a loud clack of teeth.

_Thank Christ. _

Arthur could hardly hear himself think in all that nonsense.

He rubs lightly at his temple—oh, God, is he going to get _nine _Merlin Headaches now?—before he glances back up at Uncooperative Merlin. "Look," he says, calm as he can, but calm isn't really a thing he is, ever, and the look on Gaius' face tells him he has really massively missed the mark here, "I haven't the time to stand 'round and quibble about this. All right? I'm going to go up and get him. You can stay here, or you can come with me, it makes absolutely no difference to me. But I'm going up there. All right?"

"No, no, no," Uncooperative Merlin looks like he will actually rush over and tackle Arthur to the floor if Arthur tries to go up the stairs, "no, _don't_—"

"—_Merlin—"_

"—I-I'll do it!" Uncooperative Merlin nods, a little too hard. "I'll do it! Okay? I'll do it. I'll handle it. I—I'll go, a-and bring him down. You just stay here. Just stay here." He holds out a hand, and his long, pale fingers tremble in front of him. "_Please_. You—" he glances at the narrow steps, and his whole face pulls tight again, "—y-you shouldn't have to see me like this."

Arthur does not like the sound of that, because it feels a bit too much like _I'm here to look after you, not the other way 'round_, but he shuts his mouth, and he lets Uncooperative Merlin bound off, alone, up the steps.

But that doesn't mean Arthur doesn't follow.

The minute the long, low creak of rusted hinges and ancient wood echoes down the dark stairs, and he's certain Uncooperative Merlin has gone into the bedroom, he slinks, thoroughly silent, along right on the idiot's heels, right in his shadow. This is absolutely, utterly ridiculous. Honestly. He is the King, for God's sake! He should not have to creep 'round his own damned castle like a criminal! Like a thief! _He's the King_!

Uncooperative Merlin has left the door slightly open, hanging heavy in its chipped, splintered frame, and Arthur—like a little boy at a keyhole, and yes, this is absolutely and utterly ridiculous, too—peeks in through the thin crack.

Uncooperative Merlin stands in the middle of the room, his thin face pale as fresh snow, and his blue eyes all narrowed and pinched up tight, his shaky fingers curled up in white-knuckled fists, his dark head ducked down, turned away from the new Merlin, like he can't stand to look, can't stand to even cast his eyes on the new Merlin, except the new Merlin looks—

—_normal._

The new Merlin looks _absolutely normal_.

With the way Uncooperative Merlin talked of him, Arthur almost expected to find this new one deep in a bath of virgins' blood and baby tears, or maybe all hunched over in a black cloak, with a wooden spoon in a bubbling, boiling cauldron as he casts an evil curse over the castle, but no, it's nothing like that—the new Merlin's settled on the edge of the bed, with his feet flat on the floor and his hands limp in his lap, and he—

All right, so that's a bit odd.

He stares straight past Uncooperative Merlin. Like he can't even see him, like Uncooperative Merlin _isn't even there, _or like he's slipped off into sleep with his eyes wide open, his whole face blank and empty as a sheet of new parchment.

But Arthur has certainly seen stranger—he's certainly seen the _real_ Merlin do much stranger than this new one, that's for sure—so he pushes open the door, and he slips into the room, to the foot of the bed.

But the new Merlin doesn't even look up.

Uncooperative Merlin does. _"Arthur!"_ His face untwists and his eyes un-narrow and his white-knuckled fists unclench, but the tips of his ears tinge lightly pink. "What are you doing here?" He takes a small step back, and tosses an uneasy glance over at the Merlin on the bed. Oh, so _now_ he can stand to look. "You shouldn't be up here. I—I told you not to come up here, you shouldn't be up here, you shouldn't—you shouldn't see, you shouldn't have to see—"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Well, congratulations, Merlin, but I'm here now." He flicks a glance over at the Merlin on the bed, too, but that one _still _won't even look up or even turn his head. Arthur frowns. "What's wrong with _him_?"

Now Uncooperative Merlin won't look up at him, either. "Y-You really need to leave," he ducks his dark head down and plucks halfheartedly at a loose thread on the frayed edge of his long sleeve. "You really just need to leave, Arthur, please, just leave, you shouldn't have to see this, you_ really_ shouldn't have to _see this_—"

"—oh, don't be such _a girl_, Merlin—"

"—please, please, just go, Arthur, please—"

"—for God's sake, stop frittering, you idiot, we'll never get a thing done if you don't—"

"—go, just go, just go back to Gaius, please, you sh-shouldn't have to see me like this, I—I don't _want you_ to see me like this, _please_—"

"Why _not_?" It comes out a little sharper than Arthur wanted, and it takes him far too long to hear it, with the heavy pound of his own blood and fury in his ears. "Why not? What the hell do you have _to hide_?"

The Merlin on the bed looks up.

The Merlin on the bed opens up his mouth.

His blue eyes burn gold.

He _screams._

He screams and he screams and he screams like the real Merlin has never screamed before—like the scrape and screech of long nails on hard, flat rock, or the shriek of a sword as the steel blade hits the grindstone, and it's so loud, and it drags on so long, Arthur's sure it's going to shatter all the windows in the whole castle, or it's going to bring the roof down on him, and it's got to stop soon, hasn't it, the new Merlin has got to stop soon, he's got to run out of breath, he's got to go hoarse, he's got to hurt his own ears, except he doesn't stop, he doesn't run out of breath or go hoarse, he just goes on and on and on, and the floor under Arthur's feet shakes and trembles, and dust falls, in thick grey puffs, down off the ceiling, and Arthur has to clamp his hands down, hard, over his own ears so he can _think_, because it won't stop, it won't stop, _it won't stop_—

It stops.

The Merlin on the bed falls absolutely silent and still.

It's like he never even opened up his mouth at all.

Arthur slowly pulls his palms off his throbbing ears, and he drops his hands back down to his side.

Uncooperative Merlin picks at the loose thread on his sleeve again. He didn't cover his ears. Even once.

"What," Arthur says, very unsteadily, when he can finally hear himself again, "the hell was _that_?"

"I told you," Uncooperative Merlin says, in a very flat, very dull sort of way, and he never looks up from the thread on his sleeve, "I told you to leave."

"What the hell was that?" Arthur says, again, and he sounds at least a little bit steady now. "Seriously, Merlin, what the hell? Is that all he does? Screams and silence? That's it?"

Uncooperative Merlin finally looks up at Arthur, full in the face, straight in the eyes, the frayed string still clutched tight in his long, pale fingers. "There are parts of me," he says, and in that very flat, very dull way again, "that never found a middle ground."

"Is he—?" Arthur glances at the Merlin on the bed. "Is he going to do it _again_?"

For all of half a moment, Uncooperative Merlin's face tightens, and he looks so much older and so much _sadder_ than Arthur has ever seen the real Merlin look, but he shakes his head. "Not so long as you don't shout at him again."

Arthur scowls. "I never shouted at him in the first place!"

Uncooperative Merlin shakes his head again. "At him. Around him. It's really all the same to him. He can't tell the difference, Arthur." He plucks at the thread again. "Please. Don't be loud around him, all right? Don't be loud, a-and don't grab him, and don't get too near to him. That will only make it worse."

Arthur edges around to the side of the bed. He's not too near the new Merlin, is he? "Should I—?" He looks at Uncooperative Merlin. "Should I leave him up here, then?" He doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all. The Merlin on the bed is not the real Merlin, but he's a bit of Merlin, he is one piece of the whole, and he looks so hollow, so _dead_, it feels almost cruel to turn away and leave him alone.

To leave him to his silence and his screams.

But Uncooperative Merlin lifts one skinny shoulder in a lazy little half-shrug. "Probably. All the noise down there is just going to upset him all over again."

Arthur hesitates. It still doesn't feel right. "Are you sure about that? I—I mean," he steals a glance back down at the Merlin on the bed, "it won't upset him to get left up here?"

Uncooperative Merlin does his lazy little half-shrug again. "He's going to be upset no matter what, Arthur. Just leave him to his sulk. That's pretty much all he does."

It doesn't look much like a sulk to Arthur—the new Merlin still looks too blank, too hollow, his blue eyes bloodshot and glassy and absolutely empty—but he tears his gaze away to look back up at Uncooperative Merlin all the same. "Is that what he is, then? Sulky Merlin?"

Uncooperative Merlin wrinkles up his nose. "What?"

"Well, you said it yourself. All he does is sulk."

"No," Uncooperative Merlin's nose wrinkles up even higher, and his mouth does the lemon-rind twist again, "you're _naming_ us?"

Arthur flushes, but he sticks out his chin and holds his head up high as he can. "There are _nine of you_ now. How am I meant to keep all of you straight? Short of asking Guinevere to sew you lot some color-coded scarves—"

"—_ooh—!"_

"That was _not_ an _actual suggestion_!"

"I want a color-coded scarf," Uncooperative Merlin says stubbornly.

"You are not getting a color-coded scarf," Arthur says, just as stubbornly. "The ones you've already got are awful enough."

Uncooperative Merlin looks like Arthur's just leaned over and kicked him. "_My mother_ made me my scarves."

Arthur snaps his mouth shut. He knows better than to say a word against Merlin's mother. "Well," he says, instead, "I suppose we'll just have to come back for this one once we've got all the rest." He tips his head at the Merlin on the bed—Sulky Merlin still doesn't feel right, so Sad Merlin will have to do, even if that doesn't feel right, either—and turns back to the door. "Come on, then."

Uncooperative Merlin scrambles down the stairs like he can't get himself out of the room, and away from Sad Merlin, quick enough.

Gaius arches his brow at Arthur.

Arthur shakes his head, a little too hard, and flicks a little glance over at Uncooperative Merlin, to make sure the old man understands.

"Right," he says, a touch too loud, in the heavy silence of the room, "come on, Merlin, let's head for the stables. Since I'm the first one back, the others must be—"

And, speak of the devil, and all of that, the door bursts open, and a third Merlin skips—no, no, really, he actually _skips into the room_, like an absolute girl, and he bounces a little, on the balls of his feet, and he breaks out in a bright, beaming, goofy grin—

—and he promptly trips spectacularly over his own boots, and crashes heavily to the floor. "Oh," he groans, very pathetically, _"ow."_

Arthur can actually feel his mouth drop open, but he can't do a thing to stop himself—he's seen the real Merlin stumble on absolutely flat ground before, so _that_ bit's nothing new, but this third Merlin, sprawled out in a loose tangle of too-long limbs on the floor, looks like he did the day he stumbled into Camelot and picked a fight with the crown prince.

This third Merlin looks so_ young_.

And he looks _so happy._

But that's _ridiculous_, obviously, that's completely and utterly and absolutely ridiculous, of course it is, because the real Merlin, the whole Merlin, he's happy, too, isn't he, so this third Merlin shouldn't look so strange to Arthur, this third Merlin shouldn't feel so strange to Arthur all because he _looks happy_. The real Merlin is happy, too.

Right?

Isn't he?

"Be careful, Merlin," Gaius says, with a little click of his tongue, like he's already said it a hundred times before. "If you knock yourself out on the edge of that table again—"

"Sorry, Gaius," the third Merlin scrambles to his feet, and flashes the old man a sheepish, dimpled smile. "Just tripped over."

Arthur should not ask. This is really not the time to ask. But he's still going to ask all the same. "You knocked yourself out _on the edge of the table_?"

The third Merlin blushes absolutely bright red, all the way to the tips of his enormous ears. "_Once_," he says, like that's actually going to make it better. "I only did that once."

"Oh, right, yes, my mistake," Arthur says, dryly, "we all knock ourselves out on the edges of tables once in our—"

But, right at that moment, Guinevere glides in—all soft, quiet grace, such a startling, stark contrast to the clumsy goofball on the ground in front of her—and Arthur has to snap his mouth shut, before she gets on him for "teasing" Merlin too much.

The second she's in the room, Uncooperative Merlin turns to face her.

"Gwen," he says, seriously, "can I have a color-coded scarf?"

* * *

**notes: shout-out to my friend for bringing up this fic and reminding me this chapter was rotting in my documents and all i had to do before i posted was proofread. updates on all my fics are likely going to be spotty until the end of summer. **


	4. Chapter 4

"Color-coded scarf?" Guinevere echoes blankly, a wrinkle in her brow and her lips pulled down in a baffled frown—and Arthur already has his mouth open to tell her _ignore him, just ignore him, he's just being an idiot, as usual, no need to listen to him_, but he doesn't get the chance, because right at that moment, she lights up, brighter than the castle at Christmastime, and her mouth turns up in a beaming smile. "Oh! So we can tell you all apart? That's brilliant, Merlin!"

"Brilliant?" Arthur sputters. God, _please_ let her be joking. Please let this be a joke.

"It was all Arthur's idea, really," Uncooperative Merlin grins right back at her, entirely too pleased with himself.

Arthur squawks. He can admit, it is a supremely un-kingly sound. "It was_ not_!"

"Now, don't be so modest, Arthur," Uncooperative Merlin says, but the stupid, cheeky smile on his face only stretches wider. "I would certainly never have thought of it myself if_ you_ hadn't said—"

"Why don't you just change the color yourself?" the new Merlin—Clumsy Merlin? Young Merlin? Extra Idiot Merlin? Clearly Not A Day Over Seventeen Merlin? Arthur will have to work on that—points out. "You know, with magic?"

Uncooperative Merlin fists his fingers around the ragged red cloth at his throat, and looks at the new Merlin like he's just told him to slaughter a kitten and eat its still-warm heart. "I'm not changing the color on this one," he says, like it's completely unthinkable, and the new Merlin is a soulless monster for the mere suggestion. "My _mother_ made me this one."

"Oh, for God's sake," Arthur rolls his eyes, before he turns pointedly back to Guinevere. "We need to find the rest of the Merlins, and quickly. We've made good time so far, but there are still six more out there. You found this one down in the kitchens?"

Guinevere nods. "Pockets full of sweet rolls." She clicks her tongue. "_Honestly._ Cook got him 'round the head with her ladle_ twice_ before I got to him."

Right at that moment, the new Merlin steps forward, and promptly trips over a stack of books piled up untidily in the floor, and hits the cold stone again, with a very solid thud.

Arthur stares down at him. "Well, I wouldn't worry about the ladle," he tells Guinevere. "It doesn't look like he's got much to lose up there."

The new Merlin pushes himself up on his hands and knees with an indignant huff. "_Hey_—!"

But he never makes it any farther than that, because the door clicks quietly open again, and Sir Percival eases slowly and silently inside. He has another Merlin passed out in his arms, dead to the entire world, mouth slightly open, dark head settled on Percival's broad shoulder.

"Oh, no," Guinevere rushes over to Percival at once, a hand over her mouth, "oh, no, what's happened to him? Is he all right?" She peers anxiously down into the new-new Merlin's sleeping face.

Arthur has to admit, the new-new Merlin doesn't look good—pale as parchment, his dark brows pinched up like he's in pain, and deep purple shadows, like bruises, under his closed eyes—and his stomach drops. Gaius said, if Merlin stayed split up like this too long, all the little bits of him would _die_—he said the facets would fade, and the real, whole Merlin would disappear, forever, and is this what he meant? Is this the start of it? Is this bit of Merlin, in Percival's arms, the first to go?

But Percival only shakes his head, easily sidesteps Guinevere, and presses a finger firmly to his lips until he's reached Gaius' cot in the center of the room, and laid the new-new Merlin gently down on the crisp white sheets. "Sorry," he says, at last, with a little nod to Guinevere. "Best not to wake him again, I thought."

"No, of course," Guinevere whispers. "Of course." She follows the knight over to the bed, her pretty face pulled taut, and smooths the new-new Merlin's dark, messy hair back from his sweaty brow. "What's happened to him? He looks _ill_."

Gaius comes over to the cot, too, one wrinkled hand already out and open to feel for the heat of a fever on Merlin's forehead. From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Clumsy Merlin peel himself up off the cold stone floor again and brush off his jacket.

"No idea," Percival shrugs his enormous shoulders at Guinevere. "He just passed out on me in the stables. I think he's just exhausted—he was sort of stumbling around when I found him, tripping over himself, and he wasn't making much sense—"

Arthur frowns—he knows now Merlin isn't quite as frequent a visitor to the tavern as he had always believed, but— "You're sure he wasn't drunk?"

"Couldn't be," Percival says, over Uncooperative Merlin's sudden stream of furious sputters. "It's barely been a half hour since he split. There's no way he had the time to drink himself into a stupor, _and_ reach the stables, not with the way he was bumbling over himself when I got to him."

"Well, he's certainly not ill, I can tell you that," Gaius frowns. "I believe Sir Percival may be right. He appears exhausted, but there's little else wrong with him."

"Perhaps the magic took its toll?" Guinevere wrinkles her brow. "He tore himself into _nine pieces_. That has to take an awful lot out of a sorcerer, hasn't it? Maybe this bit just got hit the hardest."

"I don't know," Percival says, a bit too doubtful. "He didn't _look_ like he does when he's used up too much magic. There was no—" he waves a hand over his own nose and mouth, "—blood, or anything, like there usually is. And his eyes were blue."

Arthur's stomach clenches up tighter than a fist, and he stares down into the new-new Merlin's pale, tired, pinched-up face. "You don't think—?" He finally tears his eyes away to look back to Gaius. "You don't think this is part of the—the whole_ fading_ thing, do you?" He swallows, and it tries to stick in his throat. "You don't think he's already been split up too long?"

"I'm not sure, Sire," Gaius says seriously.

Arthur's heart bangs against his ribs. "No," he says, desperately, "no, it's only been a half hour, like Percival said, it's only been—"

"He's not fading," Uncooperative Merlin says suddenly.

Arthur wheels around to look at him—and he's not the only one, because out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gaius, Guinevere, and Percival follow him, but if the sudden shower of attention rattles Merlin, he doesn't show it.

"He's not fading," Uncooperative Merlin says again. "I'd feel it if he was. Percival's got it right. He's just tired, is all."

"You'd—?" Guinevere pulls back from the bed to stare at Uncooperative Merlin, a frown on her face. "You'd_ feel_ it?"

"Yes?" And he looks puzzled that_ she's_ puzzled, like he _doesn't_ think it sounds ten different sorts of absolutely mad. "You can sort of feel it when you're one of nine, you know, Gwen. You can feel what's going on with all the others. And he's not fading, trust me. You don't need to worry about him."

It's the first bit of real good news Arthur has heard all day, and his breath comes a little easier now. Merlin's all right. Merlin's fine. It's not too late. He's still got time. "Right," he nods, "well, if you're sure, what we'll need to do next is—"

"Wait, wait," Guinevere cuts in, her hand up to stop Arthur before he can go on, "wait a moment, Merlin,_ why_ is he so tired? Why's he tired enough to pass out on Percival like that? What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Uncooperative Merlin says. "He's just tired."

"Well, you are just a fount of knowledge," Arthur says dryly, already impatient to be off again. The Merlin on the bed might not be in any serious danger, but that was far too close a call. He_ has_ to get all the Merlins back together before it really_ is_ too late, before he really_ has_ run out of time. "Now, come on," he adds, to Percival and Guinevere, "let's get back out there. We need to find all the others before—"

An enormous crash sounds through the chamber, louder than thunder, and perhaps louder than even a _cannon_—Arthur whirls around to see Clumsy Merlin has apparently tripped over, again, flat on the floor with his face pressed to the cold stone, and he's found a way to bring the table down with him. Several books slide off the scratched wood and onto the ground with him.

"For the love of _God_!" Arthur rakes a hand down the side of his face. "What, do we have to _tie you to a chair_ to get you to—?"

"It's not _my_ fault!" Clumsy Merlin huffs, very pink in the face. "There are too many _things_ in this room!"

"_Too many things_?" Arthur echoes incredulously, and he opens his mouth to say a bit more, but the Merlin on the bed has bolted upright in the sheets, his hair still an absolute mess, and his blue eyes enormous in his thin, sickly-white face. He looks, if it's possible, even worse now that he's awake.

"Oh, _no_!" he says, in the most dramatically tragic voice Arthur has ever heard, like Gaius' chamber, or maybe everybody clustered 'round his bedside in a tight knot, is the absolute last thing he wants to see right now.

"Hey, hey, it's all right! It's all right!" Percival says, like he's soothing a spooked horse. He pats the new Merlin lightly on the shoulder, or at least, what must feel light to him, because he nearly knocks the poor man clean off the bed. "You went a bit out of it in the stables, so I brought you here. Gaius says you're just a bit tired, that's all. Nothing to worry about. No harm done."

"Tired?" The new Merlin echoes, like this is the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard in his life. "Well, I-I don't have _time_ to be tired, Percival, I have to get the stables mucked before noon, and I've got to get Arthur ready for his council meeting—"

"Arthur's skiving off the council meeting," Uncooperative Merlin says helpfully.

"_No_," Arthur says, "the council meeting was canceled."

"Yeah, you're skiving," Clumsy Merlin decides.

"Shut up, Merlin!"

"It—it doesn't matter," the new Merlin says impatiently, with a sharp shake of his dark head, "even with_out_ the council, I've still got far too much to do—"

"Merlin, no one expects you to do your chores while you're like this," Guinevere says, much kinder than Arthur could have. "We need you here right now. We need you to stay put while we go and find the rest of you."

"Stay put?" the new Merlin—Arthur isn't sure what to call him, but _Panicky Merlin_ sounds like a good bet right about now—screeches, like that's never been a thought in his head before, like he doesn't ask Arthur for a day off every hour or so. "No, no, I have to come with you! You can't all go off on your own, it's too dangerous out there!"

Guinevere blinks blankly back at the new Merlin, thoroughly bewildered, but Percival glances, wide-eyed and obviously expectant, over at Arthur. Like he thinks Arthur's got a clue what the idiot means, like he thinks Arthur can set this all to rights.

"There's no danger here, Merlin," Gaius says, finally, and he doesn't look anywhere near as confused as Arthur feels, because of course he doesn't—Merlin is practically an entire language all his own, and Gaius is the only man in the castle who speaks it.

Percival nods. "Yeah, I reckon we'll be safe in the castle, you know."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Uncooperative Merlin mutters under his breath, looking very bitter.

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur hisses.

"But you're _not_ safe in the castle!" Panicky—or maybe Paranoid?—Merlin insists, blue eyes wide in his white face again. "You're _never_ safe in the castle! Everybody's always out to hurt or kill you—evil sorcerers, and spies, and assassins, and_ Morgana_—"

"Merlin," Arthur says, "we haven't heard a thing from Morgana in months, remember? Sir Bedivere reckons she's moved up north for now, to Blackridge—"

"She can_ teleport_!" Panicky Merlin practically wails back at Arthur.

Guinevere glances doubtfully from Panicky Merlin to Gaius and back again. "All the way from Blackridge?" she says, incredulously.

"I don't _know_!" Panicky Merlin says, in that dramatically tragic way again. "I don't know, but she's powerful enough! And one day, she's going to be more powerful than me, and—!"

"Merlin, you're Emrys," Percival reminds him.

Panicky Merlin completely ignores him. "—and then she's going to kill everyone, and everyone's going to be dead, and Camelot's going to fall, and it's going to be all my f-fault—!"

"You know, call me mad," Arthur cuts him off, "but I _think_ the guards, not to mention the hundreds of knights,_ might_ just be there to stop her from killing everyone."

Uncooperative Merlin snorts, very uncharitably, into his fist. "The _guards_?" he says, a touch too scathingly for Arthur's taste. "The knights? You really think a few men in fancy metal cans is going to—?"

Arthur could honestly and truly murder Uncooperative Merlin with no remorse.

Panicky Merlin nods. "Morgana can get past the guards and the knights! She can get past _everyone_ except_ me_!"

Arthur can actually feel his brows flying up on his forehead. "Got a rather high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"You don't understand!" Panicky Merlin shakes his head again, even harder this time. "I have to be with you! I'm the only one who can_ protect _you!"

"_What_?" Arthur huffs. _That's_ certainly going a bit far, even for an immortal, all-powerful warlock. "Don't be an idiot, Merlin, we all managed just fine without you for twenty years! I think we can handle ourselves."

"No!" Panicky Merlin swings his gangly legs over the side of the cot, and scrambles to his feet, but he wobbles where he stands, like a leaf in a high wind. "The last time Gwen went off on her own, she got captured by that—that awful man who—and the last time_ you_ went off on your own, you got yourself lost in the Perilous Lands! And you—" he actually looks like he might burst in tears, and if he does, Arthur is_ going_ to excuse himself from the room, he is _not _going to deal with a crying Merlin, he did not sign up for _that_, "—you _nearly died_!"

"You know, he's got a point, Sire," Percival says fairly. "You two don't do so well when he's not with you."

Arthur flushes. "Well, your record's not exactly squeaky clean, either!" He jabs a finger at Panicky Merlin. "The last time_ you_ went off on_ your_ own, you got yourself captured by Morgana, and enchanted to kill me!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sire," Uncooperative Merlin tosses out, in a very dry sort of voice. "Absolutely right, you are. Next time, I'll be sure to check with you before I let myself get enchanted again. I'll stop Morgana right in her tracks, tell her, _sorry, I have to make sure Arthur's all right with it first_—"

"Oh, shut up, Merlin," Arthur snaps, but he doesn't waste the time it would take to turn and glare at the idiot.

"—no, no, you're right! You're right, Arthur, it was just _so rude_ of me, can't believe I did that to you—I'll tell you what, we can work out a schedule, for the next time I feel like getting abducted in the middle of nowhere and turned into an unwilling, brainwashed assassin—"

"Do you want to be the one who mucks out the stables? Because you are _this close_ to being—"

"All right, that's enough!" Guinevere says sharply. "_You're_ going to stay put," she points at Panicky Merlin, "we need you here, so you can't be wandering off—we'll be fine with or without you, I promise. And _you're_ going to sit down, because you're breaking Gaius' things," she adds, to Clumsy Merlin, who looks a little sheepish, at least, "and _you're _going to—" she rounds on Uncooperative Merlin, but her face twists suddenly back into that wrinkled brow and baffled frown, "—what are you _doing_?"

Arthur glances over.

Uncooperative Merlin has pulled out a brush and a small silver tin from absolutely nowhere, and now he's—he's polishing Arthur's leftside pauldron. He's just standing there. Polishing. Like this is completely normal. And he actually looks a bit startled that Guinevere noticed. "Oh, sorry," he says. He steps back, and with a flash of his eyes, the tin of polish and the brush disappear in a puff of purple smoke. "Sorry," he says, again, "there was just a smudge."

"Oh," **Arthur** huffs, "so _now_ you care when my armor's got a—"

"Never mind," Guinevere says, with a shake of her head. "Never mind what_ you_ do, you're the only Merlin here who hasn't—"

"Don't," Arthur cut her off. "Whatever you're going to say, don't. I don't want him getting any ideas."

"I'm not getting ideas," Uncooperative Merlin says, far too innocently to be believable.

Arthur opens his mouth to retort—he's not sure what he's going to say, to be completely honest, but he never has to figure it out, because, all of a sudden, Sir Leon comes in through the still-open door, with a tall, thin figure in sweeping, rust-red robes right on his heels.

Oh.

Oh, _no_.

Arthur snaps his eyes shut, in the desperate hope that maybe he's just seeing things, maybe all the Merlin-induced headaches are getting to him, or maybe he's finally cracked from the stress of having a sorcerer for a best friend, but it's too late, he knows he's not seeing things, he _knows_ the man in the doorway, he knows this new Merlin, and it's unmistakably none other than—

"Oi! What are you lot standing 'round for, gossiping like maidens? I'm movin' quicker than all of you, and I'm _ninety-eight_! Come on, then, let's get on with it!"

—Dragoon. The Great.

* * *

**notes: next chapter: we pour one out for Arthur's blood pressure. **

**anyways! this fic will be coming to a close very soon now, since we've already got five out of the nine Merlins, and the original rough draft was only 15k. this is definitely going to surpass that by a bit, but not much - maybe 20-25k? I expect this will be all wrapped up within the next three chapters, and I hope to have this one finished up and marked complete by the end of the year! We'll see how that goes, though, I obviously can't make any promises right now. **


End file.
